MARK TWAIN

ing to any but our nearest friends. It is to those friends-
and those only—that this little paper will go. And I lay
upon them the injunction—if I may do it without offense,
that they allow none to see it but themselves.

fitr&at—Joan of Arc and Susy's suggestion. She liked
"FArbre tee de Bourlemont,"1 and said it was poetry,
which greatly pleased me. She was fond of Joan's transi-
tions from playful girl to official activities: "Messenger
from the King!" And La Hire's speech when he backed
up Joan's war methods.

She had no care about money, no notion of its value.
She spent it, wasted it, lost it. Lost her opera glasses, her
gloves, her parasol, her purse. It was always wise to ei-
amine a cab when she left it. In one day in Paris she left
things in three different cabs. She was such a flutter-mill;
always in the air; always singing, dancing, making her
tongue fly.

She was full of little loving ways with her mother,
whom she ennobled with pet names and enriched with
ceaseless caresses. She would pet my hair, and fuss at it,
sometimes—which always made me wish she would go on.

Sad at Viviani; at Venice; at Nauheim; the first winter
in Paris (time of Ravachal) afraid of theaters and bombs;
at La Bourboule (the riot in the Hotel threatened); at
Berlin part of the time—but she was fond of Berlin;
happy in Munich; unhappy in Maintz; in Marienbad;
very happy in Hartford, the last months. Bayreuth,
happy.

Yet through all her seasons of unhappiness there were
outbursts of happiness—exaltations of it.

I cannot remember when she first began to carry around
a vast Shakespeare. She was never without it. It was a

*A poem in his book on Joan of Arc.

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